


as though there were no tomorrow

by goingaftercacciato



Category: The Halcyon (TV)
Genre: Allusions to Period-Typical Racism and Homophobia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And At Least It's Not Straight-Up McCarthyism, Angst with a Happy Ending, As Does The Couple That Actually Talks to Each Other, Betsey Day Is Also An LGBT Ally But More In The Sense That She's Definitely Not Straight Either, I Am Proud Card-Carrying Member of the I Hate Lucian D'Abberville Club, M/M, Perhaps This Is Unrealistic But I Simply Do Not Care, Richard Garland Is An LGBT Ally And This Is A Safe Space, So He's There But Not A Lot, The Couple That Spies Together Stays Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:28:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26895193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingaftercacciato/pseuds/goingaftercacciato
Summary: It is a miracle Adil had even been able to reach the staircase in the first place, let alone carry himself up the steep flight: his stomach is in knots, his head is spinning in a vicious, sickening loop that hopelessly jumbles every thought, and his lungs are barely up to the task of holding in even the most shallow of breaths. He feels almost certain he is going to be sick, but he pushes on regardless. There are more important things at hand.He knows what he has to do, and he hardly has any time to waste.
Relationships: Adil Joshi & Betsey Day, Toby Hamilton/Adil Joshi
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	as though there were no tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I know AstriferousSprite already posted a fic quite similar to this one a few months ago (and it's absolutely wonderful and you should definitely go read it if you haven't already), so this fic is largely redundant and vastly subpar as a result. But, hear me out, this is the first fic I ever wrote for Adil and Toby way back in 2017, so it has a kind of special place in my heart, and it's completed, so I thought I might as well share it anyhow.
> 
> Title comes from Nat King Cole's "Love Me As Though There Were No Tomorrow," which doesn't have a lot to do with this story, but it makes me massively emotional every time I listen to it, so why not name a fic after it?

Adil’s hands are shaking terribly by the time he reaches the top of the stairs, his whole body shuddering like the poor battered leaves that still futilely cling to their trees despite the increasingly frigid and dreary weather. He has to pause to gather himself, tighten his grip on the thin bannister, squeezing until his knuckles go pale and ache with the strain, until his knees stop threatening to collapse beneath him. 

It is a miracle he’d even been able to reach the staircase in the first place, let alone carry himself up the steep flight: his stomach is in knots, his head is spinning in a vicious, sickening loop that hopelessly jumbles every thought, and his lungs are barely up to the task of holding in even the most shallow of breaths. He feels almost certain he is going to be sick, but he pushes on regardless. There are more important things at hand. 

He knows what he has to do, and he hardly has any time to waste.

After a thorough scan of the hallway—hounded by the sort of shameful caution that only comes with retrospect—Adil strides purposefully to the first door on the right, each step like the low tick of a ruthless clock. He straightens his jacket, slips on his well-worn mask of polite detachment, and with a deep, utterly useless breath, he raises his fist and knocks before he can think himself out of it.

Three short raps. Just like always. For the last time.

The door swings open after only a moment, and Toby is there: deconstructed in the muted yellow light, his hair mussed and dropped from its strict Brylcreem wave, that beautiful melted smile spread so eagerly across his lips, just for Adil. It’s like a punch to the gut, and for a second, Adil’s resolve wavers. 

But only for a second.

Toby hurriedly pulls him in with an arm around his waist, ducking in for a sweet, searing kiss before the door has even clicked shut behind them. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me,” he mumbles somewhat petulantly against Adil’s lips, still grinning nonetheless. 

He smells of coffee and expensive cologne, and a satin voice drifts out from the wireless atop his nightstand, warbling somberly over a low melody; it’s as if Adil’s been pulled into his own personal paradise, and he wants nothing more than to collapse into Toby, to forget the cruel, hateful world and bury himself in the safety of Toby’s arms and never leave them again. But he knows, he has always known, that this thing that they share—this bright, warm, lovely thing—is only temporary. Reality was bound to come knocking, and in the end, it had been him, his own complacency, that opened the door for it to come crashing in and tear their quaint charade apart. As Toby presses against him, holding him dangerously tight, Adil closes his eyes against the tears that beg to spill over and drown him.

It doesn’t take much longer for Toby to recognise that something is wrong, that his hungry kisses and wandering touches are met with stiff indifference. He takes a step back, just enough to look Adil in the eye, and runs his hands up Adil’s chest to rest on his shoulders. Confusion and hurt and fear are twisted together on his face: an expression of his that Adil is all too familiar with but never wanted to be the cause of. He can barely stop himself from reaching out and smoothing the worry away.

“What is it?” Toby asks softly, as if he is terrified of the answer he might receive. “What’s happened?”

“Mr. Hamilton.” 

Adil might as well have struck him for the way Toby reels back. 

Folding his trembling hands primly behind his back, Adil tries to put on a stoic face, but he can only hope he doesn’t betray the sheer scale of the toothy sorrow burrowing through his chest. He pictures Toby in handcuffs, being gruffly lead away in shame by the police as his family looks on with haughty disgust; he pictures his little brother Dhani left listless and alone in the only country that he has ever known, that still calls him foreign and accepts the colour of his skin only so long as he is seen rather than heard; he pictures his older sister Nisha cruelly amputated from her job, her giggling, young children, and the man who loves her bright enough to rival the sun; he pictures his parents dragged out of their modest flat in Birmingham, scarcely enough time to pack a single bag before they’re tossed on a dingy, overcrowded ship and forced to leave behind the life they fought for; he pictures the horror set thick on their faces when they learn the cause of their upheaval. 

It will hurt, tremendously, to leave everything behind, to cut himself out and walk away from the safe cocoon of The Halcyon’s gilded walls, but he knows what he has to do.

“Mr. Hamilton, I thought I should inform you…” He takes a breath. “I intend to tender my resignation with Mr. Garland tonight, and I think it would be for the best if we no longer saw each other,” he says, perfectly, thankfully even.

Toby crumbles instantly, curling in on himself, his face ashen and pale, as though Adil’s words are bombs landing on his shoulders. 

“What?” He asks, barely more than an exhale.

“We both knew this could not continue indefinitely, and now I think it’s time--”

Toby shakes his head frantically, stepping toward Adil once more and grabbing his hands. “Adil, I-- Please. Please don’t-- Whatever it is I’ve done, I can make it better. I promise--”

Adil’s heart is screaming in agony, begging him to make it stop, but he can’t afford to listen. _I’m doing this for him_ , he reminds it, _I’m doing this to save his life._ He shakes his head. “There is nothing to be done. I’m sorry.”

“Is this about Mr. D’Abberville?” Toby asks. “He’s not going to tell anyone, I have his word. We’re safe, Adil, please.”

Adil almost wants to laugh. If only Toby could know just how wrong he is. But Adil can’t tell him. He can’t put them both in any more jeopardy than he already has. His only choices now are to betray Toby’s trust in the most unforgivable manner or brusquely sever all ties and run while he still can. Either way, Toby’s heart will be broken in the process, but at least this way he’ll still have his life, his reputation, his career and his bright future. And he can always find someone else, someone not so vulnerable to the injustice of the world.

“That’s not what this is about. I-- I don’t wish to be with you any longer.”

His stomach turns as the lie falls from his mouth, hollow and dull. He keeps his eyes trained over Toby’s shoulder, unable to watch the pain spread across his naïvely open face. It’s hard enough to do this to himself without seeing the panicked anguish rip through Toby’s body, without seeing that he’s destroying them both from the inside out. 

“Adil,” Toby pleads. Gradually, his legs abandon him, and he sinks to his knees, his grip on Adil’s fingers verging on painful. “Please, don’t leave me.”

There are fat, unshed tears in his eyes, and his head falls forward, resting on Adil’s thigh; he mumbles into the coarse fabric of Adil’s uniform, a litany of fidelity and affection, like a defeated man on his last prayer. 

Adil breaks.

“ _Toby_ \--” he says, fighting back the sobs that have been gathering in his throat, choking him up. His breath rattles, leaking out through the heart-sized hole this wretched war has punched through his chest. He squeezes Toby’s hands because it’s all he can do.

Toby’s head snaps up immediately, his eyes wet but filled suddenly with light and shiny hope. He takes one look at Adil and scrambles to his feet. 

“What is it?” he asks again; his soft hands frame Adil’s face, thumbs brushing feather-light across his cheeks. “Tell me what’s happened. I can help you. Let me help you.”

Adil shakes his head, dislodging a few piled up tears of his own, and gives up the fight. “I can’t. I’m sorry, but I have to go. It is the only way.”

“Adil,” Toby says, patient and soft and ready for battle. He waits until Adil meets his steady gaze. “ _Please_. Trust me.”

It’s odd, this reversal: Adil, teetering on the edge, soaked up to his ears in fear and straining desperately against the quicksand tide; and Toby, firm and unshaken, prepared to shoulder Adil’s weight and carry him out on the other side. Adil is so used to being the rock, for his family, for the bar staff, for Toby. He’s learned over the years how to lace up his emotions with exceptional proficiency and pretend for all the world that the pillar of sand on which he stands is as solid as tempered steel. Falling apart, succumbing to panic is an indulgence he has never allowed himself until this moment, and right on cue, Toby is there, waiting to catch him; Adil’s chest feels fit to burst under the wave of fierce love that barrels through his body.

“I do.”

Toby leads him over to the bed, sitting down close beside him and scooping up Adil’s hand in both of his. He waits patiently for Adil to find the proper words, but fear clogs Adil’s throat, pushing his voice down. Silly as it seems, he’s terrified to speak the words out loud, as if Mr. D’Abberville will somehow know, sense the ugly weight of them in the air, even from three floors away; he could be on the phone to the immigration services before the full story could even pass Adil’s lips; five lives destroyed, just like that.

“Hey,” Toby says, a gentle reminder. His thumb runs delicately across the swells and dips of Adil’s knuckles. 

Adil nods. “Mr. D’Abberville…” Toby’s grip on his hand tightens. “He threatened me…my family…you. He said…He said if I don’t do what he asks, my family will be deported. And he will expose you.”

“What does he want?” Despite his best efforts to remain steady, a rivulet of alarm seeps into Toby’s voice, and Adil can feel his pulse thrumming wildly through their joined hands.

“He wants me to…to steal from you. Information, secrets, about your work.”

Something unnatural and emotionless stiffens on Toby’s face, and when he speaks, it’s low and cutting. “He’s working for the Nazis?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. But you see now,” Adil asks, trying to catch Toby’s eye. “Why I must go?”

“No, Adil--”

“It’s not safe, Toby. Not for you, for me, for my family, not for anyone.” He stands, wrenching himself from Toby’s grip; a hollow cold seeps into his bones immediately. “I can’t stay. This is the only way.”

“No, no.” 

Toby stands, too, overcome in an odd mixture of terror and fury. He paces the length of the room as he sinks into his whirling, troubled thoughts, surely combing over dozens of possible courses of action already, his strides agitated and uneven. Adil wants to comfort him, to pull him back and talk him down, but he scarcely has enough comfort left to keep himself from breaking apart completely. So, instead, he wraps his arms around himself and ignores the tremors running through his body.

“Running won’t stop a man like Mr. D’Abberville,” Toby reasons. “He’ll find another way. And we can’t let him get away with this.”

“You don’t understand,” Adil says, frustrated, the stark differences between him and Toby rearing their divisive heads once again. “I am not like you, Toby. I can’t act against him.”

“Neither of us can, not alone. But together…” Toby abandons his pacing and takes Adil’s face in his hands once more, a tender touch that belies his fiery indignation. “I love you, Adil,” he whispers, for the first time. “You mean the world to me. I can’t lose you. I won’t. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, and I will never let anyone hurt you or your family. I promise.”

The words melt on Adil’s skin, soaking in and warming him to his bones like stolen pieces of the sun. But it’s all too much: the terrible spectre of Mr. D’Abberville’s threats clashing against the soft thrill of Toby’s reverent declaration, making an awful, ragged mess of Adil’s thoughts. All he can do is close his eyes, press his forehead to Toby’s, and try to remember how to breathe. 

More than anything, Adil wants to say those words back. They have been sitting in the back of his mind for so very long that he’s memorised the shape and feel of them, the swoops and curves and points, the different flavours as they roll across his tongue but never past his teeth. He’s been saving them, savouring their potent, joyful truth and searching for the right moment to let them loose; this is not that moment. 

Instead, he asks, “What can we do?”

\---

The quiet strains of conversation from the lobby and the wandering, pent-up melody of the kitchen wireless are the only sounds that disturb the still air of the lounge as Adil meticulously wipes down the spotless counter. By some divine intervention, the bar is blissfully unoccupied for the moment, and Adil is left to tend only to his ragged thoughts. Though, he supposes his solitude may have more to do with the clock just now scraping past half ten than the favour of any deity.

A stifled yawn elbows its way past his lips, and he rubs a hand over his sluggish eyes. He and Toby had spent a good deal of the night sorting through the limited range of options open to them, diligently weighing the scarce pros and hefty cons of each of them until they formulated a somewhat solid plan that hopefully, at the very least, won’t lead them both straight to prison. 

When their words had run out, they had made love, slow and mournful and still new, holding tight enough to leave behind smudged bruises on each other’s skin, as if they could press close enough to simply inhabit each other and escape the bounds of the world. Afterwards, they had silently slipped beneath the sheets and curled into each other like the petals of a shivering poppy, ignoring the danger of such an indulgence, or perhaps in spite of it; they both had known without needing to speak it that there would be no chance of restful sleep for either of them in separate beds. Toby needed Adil’s movement—his steady breathing, his warmth, his beating heart—to know it was all real, and Adil needed one last night to stoke the flame in his mind so he could keep it burning as long as possible after he’d inevitably been forced to go, for once the realist in the face of Toby’s uncharacteristic optimism.

As Adil had crept down from Toby’s room, trying in vain to press the creases from his day-old uniform, he had been stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of Mr. D’Abberville’s sickly charming voice carrying down the corridor. Immediately, panic had seized him with gleeful ferocity, sinking its claws into his stomach and setting his knees to shaking. 

Without much care towards discretion, Adil had darted down the remaining stairs, his steps coming in sharp stabs as he marched his way to the back of the bar. Knowing he risked earning Mr. Garland’s ire for being tardy, he had taken only a moment to regain himself amongst the dusty bottles. It hadn’t helped much; he’d found himself surrounded instead with dense memories of a similar panic: Toby unprecedentedly close to him and the itchy impulse that drove him to press a fatal kiss to his smirking lips and change both their lives irrecoverably. Hard to believe it had been just two months ago.

When he finally pushed himself up to the bar, he had expected Mr. D’Abberville to be there, a well-dressed vulture perched on a stool, but the lounge was deserted; it seemed, despite his other distasteful qualities, Mr. D’Abberville at least had the decency to allow Adil a bit of time to find the stomach to betray Toby before he came hunting for the secrets he wanted so badly.

A few minutes later, the echo of rigid footsteps disrupts Adil’s ruminating thoughts, and he glances up. Toby has done a subpar job of taming his hair—it flops over his forehead, giving the accurate impression that he has been anxiously pacing and running his fingers through it all morning—but he’s done himself up in Adil’s favourite suit of his, the rich charcoal jacket contrasting with the crisp white of his shirt and the pop of his red tie. It’s the suit he wore on the bright morning when he held Adil for the first time and giggled against his lips, the suit Adil has lovingly peeled off of him, piece by piece, nearly a dozen times since. 

As he struts past the entrance to the lounge, Toby’s eyes flicker over, and he dips his head in just the slightest hint of a nod. Adil tosses the bar rag beneath the counter and hurriedly calls over Tom. He instructs the boy to watch over the bar in his absence, ignoring his curious questions with a dismissive wave of his hand, then calmly slips through the back door.

By the time Adil reaches the corridor, Toby is already loitering there, tapping his foot and grimacing at his watch.

“G’morning, Mr. Joshi.” 

Though she greets him with a polite smile, Adil startles as Kate steps into his path, a stack of sheets half her height piled up in her hands. Down the way, Toby’s head snaps up at the sound of Adil’s name. 

“Good morning, Kate.”

She frowns, her head cocked to the side like an inquisitive spaniel. “Are you feeling unwell today?”

“Quite alright, thank you,” he says, unintentionally curt. He smooths it over with a soft smile. “If you’d excuse me, I--” He motions down the hall.

“Oh, of course.”

With a slight bow, Adil edges past her and makes his way over to Toby; the sticky sensation of prying eyes slithers down his back with every step he takes, and he knows this incident won’t stay quiet. Kate’s not a bad girl, not by any stretch of the imagination. But she, like so many of the overworked staff, fancies a fair bit of tittle-tattle to colour her meagre breaks, and a good piece of gossip about a member of the Hamilton family is a powerful currency in the back halls. Before midday arrives, the rumour mills will be hard at work trying to come up with an explanation as to why the head barman and Mr. Hamilton needed to speak with Mr. Garland together. 

Thankfully, the truth is so far beyond belief it is unlikely that even the most creative of the staff’s gossipers will stumble onto it; most likely, they’ll make the easiest assumption and hold whispered debates to decide what exactly Adil had stolen and whether he’ll be sacked over it.

“Are you ready?” Toby asks as Adil draws up to him; he’s wringing his hands terribly. 

Adil offers him only a tired, stretched-thin smile in answer. It’s killing them both, the inability to reach out or comfort each other in any way or be comforted themselves. But they simply can’t risk another private gesture being exposed, so they have to settle instead for a look and hope it’s enough to convey even a fraction of their love. 

Toby takes a shaky breath. “Good.”

Right on cue, Mr. Garland strides through the back entrance, solemn and straight-backed as ever. His gaze lands on Toby immediately and a beat later, it slides over to Adil. 

“Mr. Hamilton,” he says with practised cheer and due deference. “Mr. Joshi.” Said slightly lower and with a hint of confusion. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Joshi and I need to speak with you, Mr. Garland. In private. I’m afraid it is a rather pressing matter,” Toby says, sounding every bit like the proper young man he was raised to be.

Mr. Garland’s eyes flicker between them, but thankfully, he chooses not to comment. “Of course, sir. Please.” He waves his hand out in front of him. “After you.”

Toby ushers Adil into the plush, dark office with a gentle, innocuous hand at his back; Adil can’t be sure who it’s meant to reassure more. Mr. Garland steps around them and smoothly seats himself behind the elegant desk. 

As Mr. Garland scrapes together the spread of crisp paperwork that clutters his desktop, Toby lowers himself into one of the richly adorned chairs and gestures for Adil to take the seat beside him, which Adil does, tentatively. He feels quite like a schoolboy, called to the headmaster’s office, only it’s his life on the line, not his marks, and belligerent nausea claws at his stomach.

“What seems to be the problem?” Mr. Garland asks, folding his worked hands atop the desk in front of him. 

“Well, it’s…” Toby’s confidence, what little he had had, has seemingly disappeared in an instant, and his fingers tap erratically against his knee while his gaze bounces around the room, landing anywhere but on Mr. Garland. 

“Toby,” Mr. Garland says, his voice pitched much softer, much like how Adil imagines he would have spoken many years ago when the Hamilton twins were merely children wreaking playful havoc in the Halcyon’s sprawling halls, before the world barged in and claimed them to its grim service. “I assure you, anything you tell me will be in the strictest of confidence.”

He sends a glance in Adil’s direction as if he’s unsure the same can be said of him.

“It’s…complicated,” Toby finally says. He pauses for a long moment, no doubt searching for the right words and the courage to actually say them. With a shuddering breath, he pushes on. “Adil…Adil is being blackmailed.” Mr. Garland raises an eyebrow at the use of Adil’s given name but again chooses to make no comment, waiting patiently for Toby to continue. “By…By Mr. D’Abberville.”

Mr. Garland hardly seems shocked by the revelation and turns his full gaze on Adil; it’s a heavy, prying thing to bear, but Adil squares his shoulders and sits up straighter, refusing to be cowed. 

“Is this true?” 

Adil nods. 

“What does he want? Certainly not money.”

As much as he can understand it, Adil resents the flippant disregard. 

“He wants classified documents, information, military secrets…sir,” he answers, tacking the honorific on tersely. 

Mr. Garland’s eyes widen ever so slightly, the only hint of his surprise as he comes to the logical conclusion. “He’s working with the Germans?” His tone is calm, measured, and Adil and Toby nod in dejected unison. “And precisely how does he expect you to obtain this information, Mr. Joshi?”

This is the part Adil had been dreading. Toby, though not thrilled about its necessity, seems sure that Mr. Garland can be trusted—if not to be tolerant, then at least to be discreet—but Adil is less inclined to place his faith in the man. Of course, Mr. Garland has always been a kind if a bit strict manager, but Adil is not so naïve as to believe everyone is what they seem to be; a person in his position can’t afford to take appearances at face value. 

But regardless of his potential misgivings, Adil hasn’t much of a choice; he is rather trapped between a rock and a hard place, but he supposes the option that doesn’t require him to betray the man he loves and commit treason is the better of the two, no matter how terrifying it may be. 

He clears his throat and pushes the words out as steadily as he can. “From Toby.”

Mr. Garland blinks, then, deliberately, turns to Toby for an explanation; though, Adil is sure he’s already halfway worked it out himself. 

“Mr. D’Abberville found out about…certain aspects of our private lives and…how we choose to spend them,” Toby explains haltingly, giving Mr. Garland a cramped look and willing him to simply understand without needing the words laid bare.

They wait, white-knuckled, for the hatred, the disgust, the dismissal, but it doesn’t come. 

“And does he have proof of this?”

“I’m not sure, but he _knows_ ,” Toby says miserably, as if he can already hear the prison sentence coming down the line. Adil, somewhat emboldened by Mr. Garland’s nonchalance, reaches out and stills Toby’s skittish movements, laying his fingers over Toby’s. Mr. Garland politely pretends not to notice.

“Well, knowing isn’t everything.” He leans back in his chair, the leather giving out a pitiful creak of protest, and folds his hands together. Everyone in the hotel knows Mr. Garland fought in the Great War, but now Adil can see it: the soldier’s composure still sewn in the loose lines of his shoulders, even after all the years in between. “Blackmail relies on the recipient being too scared to act against it, but you came to me.” He offers them a tempered smile. “I will deal with our Mr. D’Abberville.”

The air pent up in Adil’s lungs rushes out with the force of a rattling bomb, and temporary relief swells in his chest, almost too much to bear. It may be counting his rather fragile eggs before they hatch, but he thinks, just maybe, he made the right choice and they’ll scrape out of this: shaken up but together, his family put out of harm’s way. Toby slips his jittery fingers between Adil’s and squeezes.

“Thank you, Mr. Garland,” Adil says, but the simple words hardly have the depth to carry the entirety of his gratitude.

“Not at all, Mr. Joshi. We take care of our own here.”

“What exactly are we going to do?” Toby asks, ever prudent.

Mr. Garland steeples his fingers, resting his craggy chin on his index fingers, the perfect picture of thoughtfulness. “I don’t suppose Mr. D’Abberville will be inclined towards patience. It’ll be only a matter of days before he expects a return from you, Mr. Joshi. If we want to outflank him, we’ll have to be quick about it. I’ll need to speak with an old friend of mine, but I do believe there is a way we can ensure that Mr. D’Abberville is brought to justice.” 

Toby frowns, his fears not quite calmed by the admittedly vague plan, but he nods in agreement anyhow. 

“Good. Now,” Mr. Garland continues. “For the time being, I think it would be best if you two were to keep apart. We don’t want to give Mr. D’Abberville any more evidence than he may already have.”

It is a cautious, quite sensible suggestion, but it makes a disaster of Adil’s stomach all the same. He’s grown rather selfish in the past month, fed well on Toby’s honey-light affection and fastidious attention. There hasn’t been a day since that rosy morning in early September when they haven’t contrived some way to escape to each other, even if only for a handful of rushed moments; with danger, destruction, and death bombarding theirs lives more and more each day, at times, it has been only for those briefs encounters—those minutes of being seen and trusted and known in full—that Adil bothered getting out of bed at all. 

In each other, in what they share, runs a River Lethe, offering smooth amnesia against the horrors of reality and flowing with peace, comfort, and belonging. And now, when they will need those things and each other most, they are to be cleaved. It’s only meant to be temporary, of course, but its hollow weight sits coiled in the back of Adil’s throat, bleeding fear and pessimism.

The grip on his hand tightens.

\---

Adil’s hands are shaking terribly, sweat-slick and utterly useless, by the time Mr. Garland approaches him in the bar. 

“You’ll do just fine,” Mr. Garland assures him; he at least makes an effort to dredge up a brittle smile for Adil’s sake, but it does little in the way of offering comfort. 

Adil trusts Mr. Garland. He’s shown himself to be a remarkably understanding, even accepting man since Adil and Toby revealed themselves to him and laid themselves at his mercy; that’s not the problem. It’s the world Adil has trouble putting his faith in; there are a thousand and one ways for this to go spectacularly wrong, and this society was not made to work in the favour of someone like Adil. 

The plan is simple enough. Two days ago, Mr. Garland had contacted an old army friend, who has since made his way into MI5. He informed this friend of his _concerns_ regarding a certain hotel guest, citing a number of strange meetings and suspicious telegrams and overheard phone conversations, not to mention said guest’s overt attempts to wheedle his way into Lady Hamilton’s confidences, and so soon after her husband’s untimely death. With such a severe accusation made and the need for national security at an all-time high, MI5 had no choice but to begin looking into Lucian D’Abberville and his activities. 

Last night, once Mr. Garland was certain the surveillance was in place, Toby had taken up his part and written out a clumsy array of statistics and coordinates and patrol lines and submarine routes: the sorts of facts and figures that could have been easily scavenged from his files, all plausible but entirely false. And now it’s Adil’s turn. He’s to timidly hand the documents over to D’Abberville, put on a credible show of guilt and cowardice, and let D’Abberville revel in his apparent power over him. Then, with any luck, D’Abberville, in his arrogance, will simply assume the veracity of the information, and he’ll lead his MI5 tail straight to his contact and orchestrate his own demise.

But if the plan goes awry, if Adil fails, if Mr. D’Abberville realises that the information is fake, that Adil had spilt his guts to not just Toby but to Mr. Garland as well? His parents, his brother, his sister, himself: they all could be destroyed in the blink of an eye; it would be his word against Mr. D’Abberville’s, and though he theoretically has the Honorable Toby Hamilton to lend him credence, it’s hardly worth much in the end; Toby wouldn’t be able to say a single word in support of Adil without exposing himself to unwelcome suspicion in the process, and of course, Lord and Lady Hamilton would never allow that. 

Reaching into his suit jacket, Mr. Garland pulls out a crisply folded slip of paper and slides it across the counter. A touch of curiosity enters his mind, but Adil dutifully shoves the note into his pocket, ducks his head, and returns to polishing the troop of sparkling glasses that line the bar. 

“Good luck, Mr. Joshi.”

As Adil diligently ignores his reflection in the mirrored countertop, Mr. Garland’s footsteps march somberly away.

Any minute now. 

A tremor breaks through his body. He’s never been more terrified. Even the nights he spent in dirty, backend pubs—serving whiskey to rough-and-tumble men who did little to hide their distaste for him and the colour of his skin—pale in comparison. He has plenty of experience with lying, charming simpering young ladies and entertaining drunk fat cats; you simply don’t get as far as Adil has, looking like he does and being who he is, without picking up a certain set of skills. But this is an entirely different beast, one Adil’s not entirely sure he’s equipped to handle.

He sets the glass in his hand down, perhaps more roughly than is advisable, and glances towards the lobby. No sign of Mr. D’Abberville. Though, that’s hardly much of a relief; the helpless waiting is shredding his eggshell stomach to pieces, letting his fear swell and leak.

Desperate for a distraction, Adil abets his curiosity and pulls the paper from his pocket. At the very least, he rationalises, he ought to have _some_ idea of the forged information he is handing over, enough to con Mr. D’Abberville if he decides to ask questions. 

He unfolds the paper with all the care and precision he would use to open a package containing a landmine, but before he can even get it half-open, a small tear of lined paper slips out from between the folds and seesaws lazily to the floor. Frowning, Adil stoops over to pick it up and flips it over to reveal a series of numbers printed in Toby’s choppy, impatient handwriting.

It’s a basic code. Numbers standing in for letters. The letters separated by a dash, the words by a forward slash. Toby had shown him how to effortlessly crack such codes one idle night when the blackout had already been in full effect and they had grown soft and indulgent in the dim yellow light; it had become quite the practical practice, a clever way to keep a record of their love without being susceptible to prying eyes. Toby shifts the code each time, but Adil hardly needs a genius-level intellect to work out what this one says.

Three words.

One letter. Four letters. Three letters.

Adil traces over them, letting them each sink in through his fingertips. He closes his eyes. Soon, he will be able to hear those words again, to feel the warmth of them whispered against his skin and taste their sweet conviction on his lips. Soon, this will all be over, and he will stop looking over his shoulder and breathe for the first time in days. Soon, his family, his life, and his love will be safe. Soon, he hopes.

He gingerly folds Toby’s note up and tucks it in his inner pocket. Less carefully, he folds the other paper, unread, and stashes it under the bar, ready at hand.

When Mr. D’Abberville finally comes to collect, he arrives quietly. So quietly that Adil, at the back of the bar counting bottles, doesn’t notice his looming presence until he speaks.

“Mr. Joshi,” he says jovially, like a fat spider crawling up Adil’s spine. 

Adil’s hands curl into fists at his sides, and he shoves a steady gulp of air down into his lungs. He turns around. The self-satisfied smirk on Mr. D’Abberville’s face is enough to make him sick to his stomach and swollen with stinging anger. But, wary of the others bustling in and out around them, he forces his lips to bend into his perfected plastic grin, and he smoothly approaches the vulture waiting to pick him apart.

“Mr. D’Abberville,” he says, each syllable thoroughly coated in deep loathing. He braces his hands on the counter and keeps his chin high, hoping his fear doesn’t peek through. “What can I do for you?”

“I believe you have something for me?”

“Of course, sir.” 

With his heart in his throat, Adil reaches beneath the bar, then slides the thin sheet of paper across the counter. He doesn’t breathe. Not as Mr. D’Abberville takes the paper. Not as he gives it a cursory glance. Not even as he nods and thanks Adil with an oil-slick smile. Not a single molecule of oxygen passes into Adil’s lungs until Mr. D’Abberville and his smothering shadow are across the lobby and out the front doors.

Unable to wait a moment longer, Adil grabs the nearest waiter and grants him temporary dominion over the bar, then makes a hasty but dignified retreat to the back room. He pauses for a moment amid the rattling bottles—a potentially dangerous spring of hope bubbling up against his will—before he pushes on to the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Toby is waiting on the second landing, jittery hands making a muck of his neat hair. When Adil sees him there—after four agonising days of being rigidly separated and several more to come—his heart kicks against his ribs, needy and impatient to be closer. Toby, it seems, has the same thought, and they crash together in a tangle of limbs.

“It’s done.”

“God, I missed you,” Toby whispers into Adil’s shoulder. His arms are like a vice around Adil’s chest, but Adil feels anything but trapped; his own fingers are twisted, painfully tight, in the fabric of Toby’s jacket, and he greedily breathes in the serene scent of Toby’s cologne. Logically, he knows he should step back and put a respectful distance between himself and Toby as their discreet but no less public location demands, but his body clings to Toby the way ivy does around a tree: hungry and desperate to survive. And Toby clings right back.

“I missed you, too,” Adil answers, something like a prayer, something like a premonition, yet unable to completely shake the chilly white fear that has inhabited him for the past week.

Toby pulls back just enough to look Adil in the eye, framing Adil’s face with his hands. “It’ll be over soon. He thinks he’s got you under his thumb. He has no idea. MI5 will arrest him within the week. It’ll be over soon, I promise.” 

He waits until Adil nods in understanding, then, with a surreptitious glance, leans in to press a chaste but weighty kiss to Adil’s lips. It’s not nearly enough, but they’ll both have to make do. 

Dull heels click a few flights up, and they break apart, slumping back into their roles.

\---

They all pretend not to watch, experts at keeping their eyes slightly askance and their hands busy while their attention is elsewhere. It’s a relatively quiet affair. An outsider wouldn’t even know anything was amiss, but the experienced staff can pinpoint even the slightest disturbance in the air. 

The men enter the lobby around noon with matching, clipped strides, their dark coats like gaping holes punched in the air, sharp hats tipped low over their faces. They hand Mr. Garland a discreet sheet of paper and ask to speak with him in private. 

Word spreads immediately, passed in narrow whispers from Feldman to Tom to the rest of the bar staff and on through the entire hotel in only a matter of minutes.

Just as quickly, a tidal wave of gossip comes spilling back down: Kate saw Mr. Garland escort the men to Mr. D’Abberville’s suite, and it all looked rather serious. 

Adil does what he can to ignore the keen buzz that wafts through the air and tries to keep his staff similarly on task, though it is a bit like attempting to hold water in a colander. 

_Just another day_ , he tells himself. _Just another average day_. 

“So,” Betsey draws, slinging herself onto the stool nearest the stage. Adil pulls out a glass and reaches for the gin as she tosses her hair over her shoulder and props her chin on her hand; her pristine nails perfectly match the dark, sticky shade on her smiling lips. “What’s the dish, Mr. Barman?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he answers calmly despite the nervous heat flooding across his skin. He keeps his eyes on his work.

“Oh, don’t play coy with me.” She swats ineffectively at Adil’s arm but eagerly accepts the martini he’s hastily thrown together for her. “Everybody knows the barman has all the best secrets. You must have heard _something_.”

She plops the plump olive in her mouth and chews expectantly, one eyebrow cocked. Adil’s disapproving stare is useless against her shameless curiosity; he sighs and picks up the bar rag. 

“Even if I had heard anything, it wouldn’t be my place to pass it on.”

“For God’s sake, do you have to be so proper and morally upstanding all the time?” Betsey teases with a fond roll of her eyes. “Doesn’t it get so _boring_?”

“It does,” Adil concedes. “But I find it’s a very good way of keeping my job.”

Betsey scoffs. “Come off it. As if they’d ever give you the boot. This place would be sunk in a day without you.”

Her tone is playful, but Adil knows she really means it; she and Sonny had taken him under their wings the moment he arrived at the back of the bar, before he was anybody. They’ve been a persistent source of support and camaraderie ever since; they were the ones who had kept him company in the neverending slog of stocking, the ones who singled Adil out as the new head barman the second his predecessor announced his imminent retirement, the ones who met Adil with giddy I-told-you-so’s when Mr. Garland swiftly offered him the position. 

His heart swells at her praise, but, ever modest, he simply shrugs in response. “I’d rather not take the chance, Miss Day.”

Before Betsey can answer, Tom comes scuttling out from the back room. “They’re bringing ‘em down,” he announces, eagerly bounding up to the counter and subtly draping himself across it to get a good view into the lobby.

Against his better judgment, Adil turns to look too.

Mr. D’Abberville is caged on either side by the stern, stoic men as they march down the stairs. Mr. Garland trails slightly behind them. His face is perfectly neutral; Mr. D’Abberville’s, on the other hand, is a storm of anger, indignance, and, ultimately, fear. He sputters insistently, his mouth warped with a vicious snarl. Adil strains to hear his vitriolic words, sifting through the jumbled sounds of the hotel and the frenzied beating of his own heart in search of particular condemnatory syllables. But Mr. D’Abberville’s voice is pushed down too low, an attempt to minimise the spectacle, surely. 

As they escort him across the lobby, Mr. D’Abberville twists, struggling against the rigid grips on his arms, to look over his shoulder, and his frostbitten eyes cut immediately to Adil. 

Adil recoils, his stomach promptly turned to lead, and he stumbles back against the bar. Slowly, like a sinking ship, a grim grin overtakes Mr. D’Abberville’s face, one that promises he won’t be going to the noose alone.

None too gently, the agents tug Mr. D’Abberville forward and through the front doors. And just like that, they’re gone. The show is over. The hotel is calm once again, and the staff sigh in disappointment as they return to their work and begin guessing at D’Abberville’s possible crimes.

Everybody but Adil that is.

He remains in place, knuckles white around the edge of the bar, unable to move, unable to breathe. He had thought the air would feel cleaner, lighter with Mr. D’Abberville gone, but the threat of his presence still lingers, slithering over Adil’s skin. There’s no telling what he’ll say to the police, what information he will divulge to try to save his own skin; most likely, those men will be back to collect Adil by the end of the night.

“You alright, love?”

Adil jumps at the cautious touch of Betsey’s hand on his elbow.

“Yes, yes, I’m--” He clears his throat and hauls up a fragile smile. “I’m fine.”

“You sure about that?” 

Adil nods. He knows he’s hardly convincing, least of all to Betsey, but she lets him off the hook anyhow. 

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” She pats his hand and efficiently knocks back the remainder of her drink. “Put it on my tab, will ya?”

Without waiting for Adil’s answer, she winks and saunters off towards the lobby, no doubt in search of Emma. In her absence and the hastily waning eddy stirred up by the arrest, a still silence laps into the lounge, gradually consuming Adil. Preemptively, he shuts himself off and throws himself wilfully into the dull, detailed task of taking stock. He does what he can to narrow his focus to the repetitive monotony of the count, but the silence gnaws at his skin and nurses his useless fear.

It’s out of his hands. He has done everything he could possibly do in his position, and he has made all the right choices. And yet, his fate still hangs tenuously in the balance. One man happened to barge in on a single private, unguarded moment, and now, he holds the power to annihilate Adil and Adil’s innocent family in his opportunistic hands. 

No doubt Adil’s slippery subversion will have left Mr. D’Abberville humiliated and fuming; whatever sympathy, or mercy, he may have been inclined to feel for Adil has certainly been burned away; he’ll tell the police, he’ll tell them everything. Without proof, he won’t be able to drag Toby down with him, but Adil? Well, it’d hardly take much. 

He has to wonder, futile as it is, if it wouldn’t have been better to have just done as Mr. D’Abberville demanded. If it wouldn’t have been safer, in the end, to smother his morals and hand over a few documents. But before the thought is even finished, Adil knows it wouldn’t have made a difference; it would have gutted him and endangered not only Toby but the lives of countless men on the frontlines, and Adil has no doubt that even if he had bent and bowed like the obedient dog Mr. D’Abberville assumed him to be, he still would have been thrown out with the bathwater the second he was no longer of use.

“Mr. Joshi?”

Adil nearly fumbles the rather expensive bottle of cognac in his hands, and he takes a long breath while his heart skitters; he’s been caught off guard far too many times today. 

Placing the bottle down with a secure thunk, he turns and lets the sight of Toby waiting across the bar—so close and so far—wash over him and soothe his gruelling thoughts. As he approaches Toby, Adil tries to keep the keen misery off his face; Toby is clearly struggling to restrain himself as well, but a bubbly smile pulls at his lips despite his effort.

“Mr. Hamilton, what can I get you?” Adil asks with admirably-detached politeness.

“Actually…” Toby casts a furtive eye across the lounge and leans in closer. “I was hoping you might help me with something? You see, tomorrow is my colleague’s birthday, and I thought a nice bottle of wine would make an appropriate gift for him. Perhaps you could lend me your expertise in selecting one?”

It’s a thin excuse, but it will hold. 

“Of course, sir. I could show you to the wine cellar now, if you like?”

“Perfect.”

Toby scoots around the bar in record time and follows too close behind Adil as he leads them down the back corridor to the cellar. Adil scarcely has the time to shut the door behind them and switch on the lacklustre light before Toby is on him. He kisses Adil like he’s been hollowed out and starved, and Adil supposes, in a way, he has. They both have.

It’s dangerous, far too risky considering the mess they’d only just muddled through, but Adil gives into it because he doesn’t know where he’ll wake up tomorrow: in Toby’s arms or in a prison cell. Sneaking his hands up under Toby’s ill-fitted jacket, Adil wraps his arms around Toby’s waist and lets himself be kissed senseless. Until the incessant, wolfish noise drops away and the world narrows down to nothing but the simple pressure of their bodies against each other.

All too soon, Toby pulls away, letting sour reality worm its way back between them and seep into Adil’s heaving lungs. He doesn’t go too far, though, leaves his forehead tipped against Adil’s and his hand splayed over Adil’s heart.

“It’s over,” he says, a blissful grin glued to his lips. The half-hearted light of the single bare bulb spills with adoring care across his skin, painting him in valleys of shadow and patches of gold; Adil’s stomach aches with want and preemptive loss. “We’re safe.”

Adil shakes his head. 

“What?” Toby asks; his smile droops. “What is it?”

He doesn’t know how he can possibly explain it to Toby, how fundamentally different their lives and their positions in the world are. He doesn’t know how to tell Toby that though the crux of danger has passed for him, it still has its teasing, raw teeth sunk in Adil, clamping down tighter with each passing minute. He doesn’t know how to convey to Toby the scarring burden of responsibility, the fear for his family, the pressure of knowing four lives depend on the thoughtless mistakes made in his own.

“Toby--” His voice shatters around the syllables of his name, all the stress and misery of the past two weeks compressed into four letters. 

But somehow, Toby understands. He hugs Adil to his chest and whispers every word Adil needs to hear, level and candid. Reassurance spilling like honey from his lips. _They’ll never believe him. He’s a traitor. I’ll protect you. I won’t let them take you. I’ll protect you_. He seals each promise with a devout, thorough kiss, and Adil’s skittering pulse slows, bit by bit, until he feels the ground beneath his feet again, for the first time in a long time.

“I love you,” Adil says, finally, a hundred different prayers rolled into three words and pressed against Toby’s parted lips, a piece of his heart slipped from his mouth and passed to Toby. It’s a relief to hear the words out loud, to watch them swell and rise and wrap themselves around the two of them, bright and shimmering against the low light. Just because he can, he says it again, smiling and more sure than he’s been of anything in his life. “I love you, Toby Hamilton.”

“And I love you, Adil Joshi.” 

They laugh against each other’s lips, and it feels like the beginning rather than the end; like those first weeks in September when the bitter, waning days and shedding trees fell away in the wash of the innocent joy of discovery and the warmth of recognition, when the future was set out in front of them, smooth and unblemished as fresh snow. 

“We’re safe,” Toby says once more, lacing his fingers through Adil’s and giving them a squeeze.

“Not if I don’t get back to work,” Adil corrects, though, in all honesty, he couldn’t care less about receiving Mr. Garland’s solemn reprimand at the moment. 

He reluctantly steps out of Toby’s space, but Toby keeps a hold of his hands and pulls him right back in. He presses one last frowning kiss to Adil’s lips and runs a hand through Adil’s hair to flatten it back down into something respectable.

“You’ll come up after?”

“Of course.”

\---

It’s a rough shift. Adil’s attention is fractured straight down the middle. Half his mind is glued to the door, sending a blinding shock of panic through him any time an unfamiliar face strolls in; the other half is already a floor away, settling against Toby on his wide bed and growing heavy. 

Of course, his distraction doesn’t go unnoticed. Without Adil’s usual charm and showmanship, the ring of patrons that typically surrounds the bar is whittled down to a few seasoned, oblivious drunks who have no need of Adil beyond his ability to pour a bottle. Tom asks him at least half a dozen times if he’s alright, and from atop the stage, Betsey’s eyes stick to him in intervals, catching like concerned burrs.

A man with a crisp homburg and a charcoal overcoat strides through the lobby, his heels snapping against the marble, and the cherry red cosmopolitan Adil is making abruptly spills its guts across the counter. It’s a rare mistake, accompanied by a litany of profuse apologies as he mops the massacre up. As tactfully as he can, he excuses himself to fetch a fresh bottle of vodka.

Betsey is on him the second he passes through the back door.

“Alright, then, let’s have it. What’s going on with you? And don’t try and tell me it’s nothing ‘cause I saw that out there. Something’s got you spooked, kid,” she says, hands placed on her hips. She reminds him, in a shade, of his mother: stern enough to push but ready to give when she needs to. She must see something in his face because hers twists with sympathy. “Oh, love.” She lays her hand softly on his cheek. “What’s happened?”

“Bets, it’s not--” He cuts himself off. Unwilling, unable to hustle another lie past his lips. “I can’t tell you what it is. But you don’t need to worry about me.”

Betsey inspects him, head to toe, like he’s a puzzle she can just will into shape if she looks close enough, long enough. But the music beyond the hall is winding to a scattered end. Her shoulders deflate with defeat.

“Fine, you can’t talk about it. But if you ever can, or need to, you know Sonny and I are here for you, yeah?” She dips in to drop a silver-bell kiss on his cheek and whispers in his ear, “And we know how to keep a secret.”

As she disappears in a sweep of scarlet fabric behind the swinging door, Adil wonders if Betsey doesn’t already know the exact shape and gravity of his secret. Quite a lot can be seen from the stage, and no one pays much mind to the wandering gaze of a lounge singer; the tempered smiles he and Toby traded over the bar and across the room, the orchestrated brush of their fingers over a glass: they all could have been easily spotted night after night from the right vantage point. 

He’s surprised to find the idea doesn’t fill his stomach with the churning terror he would have expected, and he allows himself to consider it: letting someone else in. Another ally or two could prove invaluable; wars can’t be won alone—as he’s learned well from the turmoil of the last few months—and it would be nice to break the burden of silence with someone who can understand the stuffy cement weight of it, to spill out the ridiculous affection that’s built up in his chest as is the right of any other young man in love.

\---

By the time Adil finishes his shift and makes his way to Toby’s room, stillness has come to rest on the hotel, the premature night running her smoky fingers up and down the floors, emptying the hallways. He knocks softly, his knuckles just scraping the door, reluctant to disturb the rare soundless air. 

Toby’s been asleep, fallen under the downy spell like all the others; that much is obvious. He smiles like a dream when he opens the door and takes Adil’s hand without a word, pulls him in. Together, they carve away the starched layers that hold them apart until their skin meets, unbroken.

Another pull, and the bed rises up to meet their bodies, tangled into one. Toby draws the blankets up to their chins, quickly, before his hands know the loss of Adil’s.

Adil kisses him and doesn’t open his eyes, simply slips away in the warmth of Toby's love.

In the morning, the tinny alarm whines in their far-off ears. Toby’s arms tighten around Adil’s waist, his face buried against Adil’s bare shoulder.

“Just a while longer,” he sighs.

Adil reaches out; the crying stops. 

The battle is over.

For now, they’ve won.


End file.
